


Catalysis

by Theobule (Saathi1013)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Consent Issues, Negotiations, Other, POV Female Character, POV Third Person Limited, Sex Pollen, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-23 06:02:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4865759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Theobule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When UNCLE learns of a chemical weapons laboratory in the French Antilles, Gaby, Illya, and Napoleon are dispatched to investigate and shut it down if at all possible.  They discover that THRUSH's scientists are developing an extremely powerful aphrodisiac - and their mission doesn't quite go as planned.</p><p>Basically: sex pollen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catalysis

**Author's Note:**

> No beta, no translation assistance besides thorough searcing (ie more than google translate); errors, if pointed out kindly, will be corrected with alacrity. Thanks to knitmeapony, who helped me figure out how I could tackle this trope on my own terms.
> 
> Written for a prompt on the MFU kinkmeme, the summary of which is a bit spoilery, but you can read it here: http://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=31104#cmt31104
> 
> Like the film, there's a darker moment towards the end (minor/original character death) , between the sex pollen scene(s) & the denouement, so heads up.

Illya is usually the one to come up with the worst-case scenarios; Napoleon is good at finding ways out of them. Gaby leaves them to it, keeping a mental catalogue of their resources so she can improvise when she needs to. She often does - planning can only take you so far. There are always variables they haven't foreseen.

This time, she catches one before they even leave their lodgings. She looks up from filing down the ragged edges of her nails. "What if we - any or all of us - get exposed?" In unison, her partners turn to her, partially silhouetted by the glare of the sun reflecting off the rich blue Caribbean surrounding them. Illya's brows are knotted together, Napoleon's rise high, like they counterbalance each other. "We _are_ going into a chemical weapons manufacturing plant with intent to blow it up. Don't you think we might be in some danger of coming into contact with, say, _chemical weapons?"_

"We will have protective gear," Illya reasons, gesturing to the the hand-drawn map they've patched together from their various sources and a few educated guesses. His fingers tap the locker rooms, where employees suit up before going into the laboratories. Protection and disguise at once during infiltration, but if - _when_ \- the shooting starts, the former function will be dramatically reduced.

Napoleon leans back in his chair, wicker creaking protest. "No, no, she's got a point, Peril. We have to take that into account - if one of us is incapacitated, the others might have to-"

"-get them out," Illya interrupts, "and to secure location until the effects wear off."

Gaby shakes her head and frowns down at her manicure. She'll need to add polish if she wants to hide the bruise under the left thumbnail and the grease stains from hot-wiring that tank. "Sure," she says, "I'll just throw you over my shoulder and carry you out. Oh, wait."

"Napoleon can take care of it," Peril mutters.

"... _can_ I?" Napoleon says, with exaggerated relish.

"I meant you can get me out of the facility," Illya corrects firmly, ears going pink. Maybe it's from the sun.

Then again, maybe not. "I've read the reports as well as you have," Gaby says. "Even if we get out, is forty-eight hours of quarantine really our best option?"

Napoleon spreads his palms wide. "There's always letting the intended effects, ah, run their course. So to speak."

Illya's posture is going hunched in slow-motion, shoulders drawn tight, head lowering. She can't see the top half of his face beyond the brim of his cap, spine curling like the stem of a wilting flower. "I would prefer quarantine," he insists. "I can handle effects on my own." Napoleon presses his lips together, clearly suppressing his mirth and at least six different retorts. "Neither of you are obligated to help."

"I wouldn't call it an _obligation,_ " Napoleon comments, grinning despite the glare Illya gives him.

"Pity, then," Illya snaps. "I will not ask for your _pity_ if I am... affected."

"It wouldn't be pity," Gaby says, as gently as she can despite a surge of frustration. This is as close as they've come to talking about the tension still lingering between them after their near-misses in Rome. Illya's been distant and infuriatingly professional since. Still, she's caught him looking, once or twice, when he thinks she won't notice, and he'd had one of his tantrums in Marrakesh when she'd been a little _too_ successful at flirting with the French consul's assistant. "But if you aren't willing, we'll respect your wishes."

Illya nods curtly, jaw set.

Napoleon casts Gaby a glance and a shrug, as if to say _I tried._ She and Illya may not have talked, but Napoleon's brought it up a few times. He has a hidden, meddlesome romantic streak, despite his own cavalier attitude about 'sentiment.' "I'm rooting for you two," he'd said once, "if only to see if you can get Peril to unwind."

She smirks at him now. "...and let me guess, Solo, you-"

" _I_ have five hundred American dollars cash tucked into the toilet paper roll in the cabinet under the sink, behind the extra towels, and you are to hire a professional's assistance for the evening, explaining the situation as best you can to them without breaking confidentiality," Napoleon informs them, without hesitation or prevarication. "I know a highly reputable establishment on St. Bart's."

There is a long silence. Illya looks like he's been slapped in the face.

Gaby finds her voice first. "...them?" she enquires. She can't imagine approaching one... _professional,_ let alone multiple.

Napoleon waves dismissively. "I'm not partial to gender," he says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

Illya springs to his feet, pacing across the patio to the french doors, disappearing into the relative darkness of their cozy beachfront bungalow. Gaby and Napoleon both exchange glances, each bracing for the sound of something breaking. When it doesn't come, Gaby leans forward, peering into the shadows. She can't see anything.

"...really?" she whispers to Napoleon.

He shrugs, not quite meeting her eyes. "Remember Rio?" he murmurs. "How do you think I convinced João I wasn't trying to burgle him?"

"Oh," she says. "He thought you were there for _him._ "

"Got it in one," he says with a tilt of his head. He looks up, then, and she can see the wariness in his gaze. "That won't be a problem, will it?"

"It bothers me more that you fucked Victoria," she says, and he grimaces.

"You can take the greasemonkey out of the chop-shop," he says, half scolding, half faux-scandalized. "But the vocabulary tags along, apparently."

"Tch," she says. "You were in the army. There's nothing I could say you haven't heard before."

"Ah, but I'm not used to hearing it from such a pretty girl." He tips her a wink, and she laughs. This isn’t the first time they’ve had some variation of this conversation. It’s become a comforting part of their banter: she occasionally uses scandalous language, he acts shocked.

Illya returns, open bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other. He puts them down atop their makeshift map, knocking aside the chess pieces they've been using as markers. He splashes a generous two fingers of vodka in each tumbler, nudging one towards Napoleon and offering the other to Gaby. She takes it, noting that he keeps the bottle for himself as he drops heavily into his own chair.

He waits for them both to drink - and finish swallowing - before announcing. "You can keep your money, _tovarishch._ There is no need to involve civilians. I will help, if you need." He pauses. "If you like."

Gaby sets her glass on the dark slate paving-stones beside her chair, so that she won't drop it.

"Illya," Napoleon says carefully. "You don't have to-"

"I am willing if you are," Illya says, with finality. "Although I would prefer if you did not _get_ exposed, you understand?"

"...yes," Napoleon replies slowly, peering into his glass before taking another swallow. "Thank you, Peril. I think."

"Do not mention it," Illya declares. "Really. I would prefer we be done with this talk, if we can."

"Well, what about me?" Gaby says.

Napoleon blinks. "What about you?"

Gaby stands without thinking, fists propped on her hips as she lifts her chin, indignant. "What if I get exposed?"

Both men's eyes flick towards each other before their attention returns to her, and they shift in their seats, Napoleon propping his elbows on his knees, Illya folding his arms across his chest. "All right," Napoleon says, plainly humoring her. "What about you?"

"Staying in one place for two days may not be feasible, after the operation. We may need to move as fast as we can. So." She takes a deep breath. "Whichever of you is closest. And the least injured. And I don't want any _arguing_ about it, do you understand?"

Illya looks mutinous, but he nods. Napoleon lifts his glass, shrugging before he downs the rest of his drink. "It seems we are all on the same page," he comments lightly, sending Illya a significant glance, and Gaby feels a thread of uncertainty, as if they've both lied to her.

"Good, now we are done. Let us go back to exit strategy," Illya says.

Napoleon rights the chess pieces and sets them in the uneven rectangle of the development lab. "Illya's the white knight," he reminds them, grinning, "and I'm the black."

"Why am I the rook?" Gaby asks.

Napoleon's smile gets wider as he taps the crenelated top of the white rook. "Pretend that's a crown," he says, all conciliatory but for the mischief in his eyes, "on top of a very short queen."

Gaby socks him in the arm, but it only makes him laugh.

 

* * *

 

They've navigated halfway through the facility when Gaby realizes that her partners seem to have altered the plan. Or... not altered, precisely, so much as made their own addendum. Anytime they have to split up, Napoleon goes off on his own, and Illya sticks close to Gaby. They switch off with the ease of long practice, first Napoleon in the lead and then Illya, but somehow Gaby never gets to take her turn at point, despite the fact that she's less obtrusive than Napoleon's broad frame or Illya's tall one.

They're guarding her. She's had enough of playing damsel since Alexander Vinciguerra chained her to his Jeep. She's getting trained in field tactics at UNCLE headquarters in New York, has cajoled Napoleon into teaching her how to pick locks (she’s almost gotten the hang of undoing handcuffs without looking), and tags along with Illya to the range. She'd thought that she'd earned their respect - hell, Napoleon had treated her as if she were competent the very first night they'd met, had _relied_ upon her abilities then and since.

After four months of working together and half again as many missions, their sudden protectiveness rankles.

And, in the end, it counts for naught. They reach their objective, set the charges, and get caught by a patrol as soon as they step into the hallway. The upside is that the guards aren't armed with guns that shoot bullets.

The downside is that the guards are armed with guns that shoot tranquilizer darts.

 

* * *

 

Gaby wakes alone, cotton-mouthed and woolly-headed, on the floor of a room filled with greenery. It smells of earth and of damp and of fertilizer. A machine clicks, then hisses, and water mists over the plants nearby and the top of her body.

 _The sprinkler timer could be useful,_ she thinks dully, holding up a sluggish arm to block the spray and the bright white light coming from the ceiling panels.

"Good morning, Miss," a male voice says, and she twists only to see a speaker in the nearest wall, beside a door. She gathers herself and stands, finding that she’s surrounded by rosebushes planted in narrow rows, irrigation pipes dangling from above and running the whole length of the room, which can't be more than ten by twenty feet at most. "I'm sorry about the cramped accommodations, but we're only in stage two." The voice is shaded with a familiar accent: more Bavaria than Berlin.

She considers answering in German, appealing to the sympathies of a fellow former countryman, but doesn’t know his allegiance. Her silence will encourage her captor to talk more than asking questions will.

The roses are very large and fragrant, the bushes lashed to posts with little twists of wire. Gaby reaches over and grabs one, testing the metal for its resistance, finding it too soft to pick a lock with. The post is part of a lattice, too well-built to dismantle quickly for use as a weapon. Still an option, if she's stuck here long enough. When she pulls her hand away, Gaby finds a streak of pollen on the heel of her palm. She wipes it off on her trousers.

"I hope you like my garden," the voice says. "I've worked a long time to develop this strain."

Gaby plays along, tracing the edges of a deep crimson bloom, rubbing a petal between thumb and forefinger. More saffron-yellow pollen shakes loose, and the scent gets heavier, cloying with a bitter undertone. She sneezes and rubs her nose.

"They're all right," she allows, shrugging. "A little strong."

"That's the _point_ ," the voice tells her. "We needed them to be an effective vector." Gaby's skin prickles. "Hardy, alluring, and completely innocuous to the untrained eye. Do you know how many politicians and CEOs have rose gardens? How many diplomats have florists on staff, filling vases with new blooms in their homes, in their offices?"

Gaby swallows hard, and her stomach turns over. "Why an aphrodisiac?"

The voice laughs, glad to have gotten a response. "So many reasons. Scandal, leverage, distraction... not to mention the potential profits from the pharmaceutical quarter. And it's terribly poetic, don't you think?"

Gaby returns to the sprinkler, scrubbing her hands fiercely, washing her face, rinsing out her mouth. She blows her nose and rinses her hands again. It's probably too late; the crawling under her skin has turned to a heated flush, and her fingers tremble. Her head spins. How long has she been in here, exposed?

 _Where are Illya and Napoleon?_ That thought spurs her to action. Gaby goes to try the door. The knob turns easily, and she's so surprised that she almost falls backwards when it opens towards her. "You're free to go," her captor says. "All the way down the hall and to the left, up the stairs and through the hatch."

Gaby frowns, dubious. "I didn't come here alone," she announces. "And I'm not leaving alone."

"Oh, I’m sure you'll find them," the voice replies dismissively. "Have fun." The speaker clicks, disconnecting.

"Wait," Gaby says, " _where?_ "

There's no answer.

Gaby inhales deeply, exhales, and steps through the door.

 

* * *

 

She's not in the facility they raided before, or if she is, it's in a wing or on a level their intelligence hadn't mentioned. The first door she finds opens into a storage closet - shelves of fertilizer and racks of gardening tools and a few protective suits on pegs.

Too late for the latter. She takes a wrench, hooks it in her belt loops because she's as likely to drop it as anything else if she carries it too long.

It's not that she can't hold it; her grip is fine. She hasn't lost strength, but she's lost focus. Skin so sensitive she wants to strip off her clothes, the wool of her trousers rubbing at the seams where her legs brush with every step, the lace of her bra catching against her blouse until her nipples tighten. Her body is on a slow burn, heat pooling at the base of her spine, in her cheeks, in her cunt.

The next few rooms are empty; she finds another greenhouse, dark and hollow, another storage closet beside it, barren.

The walls are all concrete painted steel gray on the bottom, paler gray on top. At the end of the hall, an exit sign glares red from above, pointing to the left. A plate bolted to the wall below it points to the right, neatly-stenciled letters reading _Patient Quarantine_.

Illya and Napoleon. She thinks of Illya's cold fingers sliding up her thigh, the way Napoleon's exhalation fanned across the nape of her neck as they both crouched in front of a closed door, lockpicks held at precise angles. A shudder skids down her spine, and her hair is starting to cling to her temples. She pushes it off her face, and just the drag of her fingernails across her scalp makes her breath catch. She does it again, lets her hand trail down the side of her neck, to the collar of her shirt.

 _When did I stop walking?_ she wonders, staring at the sign. _Patient Quarantine. Illya and Napoleon._ She hopes they haven't been dosed, too. It's not unpleasant so much as confounding, and one of them needs to be able to concentrate.

This hallway reminds her more of a prison crossed with a zoo, but more modern. The walls facing out are thick, clear plastic, bolted to floor and ceiling through wide metal strips on both sides. The doors, too, are clear and reinforced around the sides, with slots for food trays padlocked shut. Cameras crouch in cages on the ceiling: no privacy.

Theirs is the only cell occupied, so Gaby spots them both easily as soon as she rounds the corner. She sees Illya first: he's facing the door, watchful and wary, sitting on the floor of their cell. He jerks upright when she appears, visibly keeping himself from standing. In front of him lies Napoleon, whose back is against a wall, limbs loose and lax until Illya's aborted motion snaps him awake. He twists to see who it is, and his whole face lights up.

"Darling!" Napoleon says. "You wouldn't happen to have found our clothes anywhere, would you?"

Gaby has to close her eyes. Not because she's scandalized - she left that particular bit of innocence behind long ago - and not for their sakes - she's accidentally walked in on Napoleon naked before, in more damning situations, and they'd both had to strip Illya down after that unfortunate ice-skating incident in Aspen. But she can't look at all that bare skin, Napoleon's smile, Illya's blue, blue eyes, and stand upright at the same time. Her wobbly knees refuse to allow it.

She just. She _needs_. Bracing against the the wall to steady herself, she’s tempted to turn around, turn away.

"Gaby-" Illya says, worry in his voice.

"I've been dosed. The reports." She inhales through her nose, exhales through her mouth. "Our intel was wrong. They _have_ perfected a delivery device. It's in roses. In the scent, the pollen. I." The air is cool in her throat, in her lungs. She concentrates on that. "Are you both all right."

"It's a little drafty, but we're fine," Napoleon says. A laugh rips its way out of her chest like a sob. She hears his voice drop, low and layered with meaning: "... _Peril_."

Gaby manages to open her eyes in time to see Illya nod at whatever wordless communication they both shared. "...what?" she asks.

"Can you unlock the door, Gaby?" Napoleon says.

The door. The lock. She can do this. It's better if she keeps her head down. It's five steps to the door of their cell. There's a heavy sliding bolt that drops into a hole in the floor, which she lifts. There's also-

"I don't know what kind of lock this is," she tells Napoleon.

"What does it look like? Does it have a brand stamp?"

"No brand," she says, which doesn't mean much. THRUSH could have machined it themselves, for all she can tell. "It has a slot instead of a keyhole."

Napoleon sounds delighted. "Oh, I've heard of these, they take punch cards!"

"I don't have a punch card," she tells him.

"But they run on electricity," he points out. " _That,_ you can use."

 _Oh,_ she thinks. _Yes._ But the thought is hazy. They're both looking at her expectantly, totally confident in her abilities. Illya's eyelashes are very long. She drops her gaze. Napoleon has more body hair than she would've guessed once. It tapers down from his chest and-

"Gaby," Napoleon says, gesturing. "Look at me." If she weren't flushed before, she'd be blushing now. She thinks he’ll make a joke, say, _my eyes are up here_ , but there's only understanding in his expression, sympathy in his voice. "Take that wrench and go over to the junction box, break it open, and get us out. It'll only be a minute, then we can take care of you."

" _Solo_ ," Illya rumbles, a warning.

"Peril," Napoleon says, teeth flashing in more than a smile.

 _Only a minute,_ Gaby thinks, turning. And then she can stop, and they can- _Whoever is closest,_ she'd told them, _and the least injured._ It had seemed so sensible at the time, an agreement more for peace of mind than anything else. Now, they're both there and she has to choose. Choose between them? Choose one of them or none. _I don't want any_ arguing _about it,_ she'd said. Frustrated, she slams the wrench into the junction box, pries it from the wall. Something sparks, and the lights flicker and dim, several bulbs popping into uselessness.

A new wave of heat rolls along her limbs, sending her hair on end and her toes curling. She drops the wrench with a clatter and leans into the cool, solid concrete, clutching at the front of her shirt to feel the fabric stretch and strain around her torso and at the collar.

The door to the cell creaks open and she sighs. "...Gaby?" Illya says, from her right.

A hand lands on her shoulder, light and tentative, and it's like breaking open the junction box again: a blinding jolt of electricity before it fades, withdrawn. "Sorry," Napoleon says, contrite on her left. She doesn't know if he's apologizing to her or to Illya - like she's Illya's _property_.

They'd made the decision for her, keeping Illya close to her so that there wouldn't be any question about who'd fulfill her request, on the off chance the contingency becomes necessary. She bares her teeth and rounds on Napoleon. "Don't be," she says, half a snarl, and shoves him against the wall to kiss him, messy and off-center and brilliant. If their contact through her blouse had felt good, this is like swallowing fire without the pain, hot and flickering and bright, illuminating her from the inside.

There's a strangled noise behind her, and she wrest her mouth from Napoleon's to see Illya, his eyes dark with broken longing. "Illya," she starts, but he cuts her off with a shake of his head.

"No," he says. "I. I will go, see if I can find us clothes."

"Stop," she tells him. "I'm not picking Napoleon." It's unfair to expect her to make an irrevocable _choice_ , not here and now, not like this.

"I beg your pardon?" Napoleon says. He's not touching her where she's not touching him, his palms pressed flat to the wall, but there had been nothing aloof in the way he'd kissed her. "I mean, not that I don't respect your decision, but- _what?_ "

Gaby puts two fingers over his lips, shushing him. He huffs through his nose at her. She wants to kiss him again. She wants- "You said you weren't partial." She turns to Illya. "You said you were willing if he was. Can you _share?"_

There's a long silence as they look at each other over her head. They could say no, they _could_ , but she knows they won’t. She knows them too well, doesn’t think about the eventual, inevitable fallout from asking when they can’t deny her. She _aches_.

Napoleon's cock twitches against her belly and she wants to lean down, take it into her mouth as it gets hard, feel it thicken on her tongue. She wants to leave it slick so that he can fuck into Illya's fist with a smooth glide. Maybe while Illya eats her out. She tries to figure out how they'd need to arrange themselves for that, gets distracted by all the other options.

Illya's hands land on her hips, stilling her where she'd been rubbing herself along the hard line of Napoleon's thigh. "Infuriating, impossible woman," Illya grumbles, but there's affection in it. He lifts her chin with one crooked knuckle, and bends to kiss her sweetly like he has to woo her. She laughs against him, tremulous and wild, shivering where she's caught between them both. This close, she can smell them, Napoleon's expensive aftershave and Illya's shampoo, their sweat and their skin and their arousal.

"Please," she says, addressing them both, either of them, she doesn't care, "please, touch me, I need-" Illya's steady strength, Napoleon's quicksilver tongue, everything.

Napoleon's hand curves around her ribs, shaping itself to the small of her spine, pulling her close to drag his teeth along the line of her neck. Illya cups one breast in his wide palm and Gaby's head reels. She's so wet she wonders if Napoleon can tell through her trousers. She digs her fingernails into his shoulders, feeling his moan through her collarbone. "We seem to be at a disadvantage here," he observes.

"You-" Illya says, but then she distracts them both by unbuttoning her shirt.

"What I wouldn't kill for a proper bed and better lighting," Napoleon says, opening the fly of her trousers while Illya gets rid of her blouse. She kicks off her shoes.

"Next time," Illya responds absently, and Napoleon’s head rises, startled. "Why I was uncertain, before," he explains. "I don't do these things lightly."

"And you're certain now?"

Gaby would scold them for talking, but they're multitasking: someone's touch is slipping between her legs, and her trousers are being pushed down her thighs. Every caress is like setting a match to gunpowder; her nerves flare and she can feel tension slowly gathering in her core. "You didn't treat this like..." Illya pauses, thinking. "Like opportunity."

"I'm not a _complete_ cad," Napoleon retorts.

Illya scoffs, and Gaby can tell that it's his fingers sliding into her because then he inhales sharply in her ear. " _Bozhe moi,_ " he says, "you're so–" She hooks her leg around Napoleon's hip, wedging her knee against the wall, trusting that they'll catch her if she loses her balance.

They work well together, shifting to share her weight, one hand coming up under thigh, another pressing bruises into her hip. "I think maybe-" Napoleon says and Illya responds, "yes, if-" and they're lifting her to her toes and then higher and Illya's holding her open for the thick blunt heat of Napoleon's cock and-

Gaby's vision goes white and she gasps, overwhelmed. "Should I be flattered?" Napoleon murmurs in her ear, and she thumps him with her closed fist.

"Move," she tells him, and he does. Illya's whispering words she doesn't need a translator to understand, tenderness and reassurance clear in his tone. As solid as the wall, he's all hard muscle along her spine, chest hair tickling her shoulder blades. She uses him as leverage, inching higher, opening wider. Illya's cock leaves a wet track on her flank, and she wonders if she can take both of them at once.

Napoleon shoots her a shocked, pleading look. Did she say that out loud? Doesn't matter, not when he's rocking into her faster, right at that - _oh, oh, perfect_ \- angle. "Like that," she tells him, and pulls him closer so that she can kiss the absurd little curl at the corner of his mouth and rake her hands through his hair and feel her nipples drag over his skin.

Illya's fingers return, rubbing tight spirals around and around until the world begins to fray and char around the edges, like a wick or a fuse burning down, until she doesn't know what language she's speaking when she starts calling them names, starts saying things like _mine_ and _beautiful_ and _never stop, never ever stop_.

Napoleon fucks her through the first orgasm and halfway through the second, Illya’s fingertips finishing her off while she can still feel the twitch of Napoleon’s diminishing erection within her. “ _Sehr gut_ ,” she sighs, bumping her forehead affectionately into his and kissing him deeply.

“I do aim to please,” he tells her, smiling.

“How do you feel?” Illya asks, helping her down, gentling her descent. Goose pimples rise where his skin brushes hers, and when she turns towards him, she can’t stop staring at the curve of his lower lip, the shadow in the dip of his collarbone. His grip on her upper arms remind her that he’d just helped hold her up, and he’s only slightly out of breath.

Which… might not be _entirely_ due to exertion. She lays her palms on his chest, enjoying the way his lungs rise and fall more rapidly as she slides them over his ribcage and down his abdomen, thumbs dipping into his navel. “...fine,” she tells him distantly, tracing the line of his hips until-

“What _kind_ of fine?” Napoleon asks, sounding amused.

When she looks up again, Illya is staring at her with thinly-veiled restraint. “Will you-” she starts, and he nods before she finishes asking. “Down,” she tells him, and he gets to his knees.

“ _Oh_ ,” Napoleon says, and runs out of words.

Gaby considers Illya’s mouth, inches away from her cunt, but his dick is long and lovely and ready for her, so she follows him to the floor. She shoves him back until she’s sinking onto him with one smooth roll of her hips. “Touch me,” she tells him, and he does, stroking the skin of her thighs, the ticklish line of her inner arm, rolling one nipple between his fingers until she has to bite the inside of her cheek.

How had she ever thought his touch cold, his countenance frightening? She leans forward, catching his lips with hers. This is Illya, _her_ Illya, gentle eyes and reverent hands and golden hair. He lifts his knees, plants his feet, and pushes up to meet her every downstroke.

Everything’s starting to blur, pleasure less like regular, crashing waves of current and more like eddies and undertows, dragging her under and spinning her around until all she can do is take little sips of air before she’s submerged again. Illya shouts like he’s drowning with her, and the seas calm a bit, both of them gasping.

Episodes aside, Illya’s usually so restrained that seeing him like this is a revelation. Gaby rubs the soft, pink skin of his lips, and slips her fingers inside when they part, hooking them around his teeth, sliding them along the tip of his tongue. _“You have a beautiful mouth,”_ she tells him in German, voice low like she's telling him a secret. _“I'd like to use it."_

It’s not a question, but he nods, his eyes wide as she’s moving anyway, crawling up his body to kneel over his face. He’s enthusiastic but clumsy; she hopes this isn’t the first time he’s done this. It doesn’t matter much, though. Between how keyed up she is and how… _responsive_ he is to her instructions, he brings her off and works her through it until her legs give out.

Things go dark.

 

* * *

 

“Gaby?” Napoleon asks, somewhere above her. She pries her eyes open. He’s staring down at her, wearing one of the protective suits, zipped up to his neck. She can see a bruise blooming under the angle of his jaw. She rolls onto her side, spots Illya sitting on the floor nearby, watching her warily.

“...are you-?” he asks. There’s a second suit bundled in his lap, but he hasn’t put it on yet.

“I’m fine, I think,” Gaby says. “Normal fine, I mean.” The pleasant haze of hormones is burning away, discomfort asserting itself through the satisfaction. The concrete floor under her back is very cold and very hard. She might have skinned her knees and one elbow and the heel of the opposite hand. Her whole body feels used, muscles strained, skin clammy with sweat, and there’s a stickiness on the insides of her thighs that makes her want to soak in a hot bath for a week.

Gaby very adamantly doesn’t allow herself to give a single shit about any of it. It’s awkward, sure, gathering her clothes and letting Napoleon help her to her feet. She gives in to the impulse to avert her gaze as Illya dresses himself.

But she’s not _sorry_ , exactly. She bends - gingerly - to retrieve the wrench. When she shoves the tangle of emotion down into her chest, it turns over, something new rising to the fore.

She’s not ashamed, she’s _angry_.

“Ready?” she asks them, hefting the wrench. Fog cleared, she can think properly again.

“Absolutely,” Napoleon replies.

“Da, let us go.” Illya says.

“...before we do,” she says, “let’s find out where those camera wires go. Oh, and we need to pick up a few things on the way.”

 

* * *

 

“Here’s the thing,” Napoleon’s explaining to the man whose voice she’s heard over the speaker. He’s small and slender and much younger than he’d sounded. “We already knew what your little drug did, so it didn’t have much benefit for you than to delay the inevitable. On the other hand, we now have three things on our side: a very angry Peril-” the crashes and shouting in the next room attest to this "– and a _personally_ affronted Gaby, here. I promise you, she’s the more frightening of the two.”

Gaby hefts the wrench, propping it on her shoulder. The smile she gives Napoleon could, to the unwary, seem almost sweet. “You forgot the third thing,” she says.

Napoleon tips his head and pauses, glancing at the clock, at the monitors on the computer wall. “...so I did,” he says. “We also found your well-stocked labs on our way here, which gave us access to a large quantity of fertilizer, a timer, and some other chemicals that Gaby knows how to pronounce but I don’t. Meaning that in… three, two, one…”

There’s a couple seconds of silence. “I know I got the mix right,” Gaby says, scowling. “Maybe-”

The room shakes, and all the lights flicker, the computer wall shorting with several impressive grinding and popping noises. The screens go dark.

“Now, I _could_ take you into custody now,” Napoleon says. “Let my organization interrogate you, wring information out of you until you’re a shell of your former self. But frankly, I don’t want you talking about anything you saw on those surveillance cameras, so…”

The botanist starts to rise out of his chair, a despairing grimace crumpling his face. He opens his mouth to speak, hands raised and empty. Napoleon lifts the gun he stole from a guard and squeezes the trigger twice.

Gaby blinks as the body hits the floor. “...you didn’t have to do that,” she says. “Not on my account.”

“Who said it was for _you,_ ” Napoleon replies cooly, already turning towards the door. Unconvinced, Gaby follows anyway.

 

* * *

 

The boat ride back to the resort is quiet. Gaby feels hollow and too exhausted to dig around in her mind to sort out her jumbled memories and emotions, let alone talk about them. She doesn’t have the energy to be upset that her partners are taking protective positions, Illya in front of her and to her right, Napoleon behind and to her left.

Once inside their bungalow, Napoleon gestures to the bathroom with a fatigued little flourish. “Ladies first,” he says.

She lets the tub fill and avoids looking in the mirror as she strips. Easing into the water with a sigh, she breathes deep of the steam, scented with the citrus bath oil. Thank goodness it’s not floral.

Leery of letting her thoughts drift, she scrubs methodically and thinks back to the beginning of the mission, dissecting it the way she does when she writes reports. Dispassionate, analytical, detached. After the Vinciguerra affair and how she’d been a mess after talking about her father, after hearing what her uncle had done to Napoleon, she’d learned to lock that part of herself away when in debriefing mode.

 _Their camera system had been the key,_ she thinks. They’d been spotted on the surveillance monitors sooner than they’d predicted. Something about that bothers her. She replays their break-in step by step, retracing her path, then Napoleon’s, then Illya’s. Nothing out of place there.

She remembers the brush of Illya’s hand in the small of her back, as they’d rounded a corner. _God, his hands were..._

Gaby shakes her head, and then, suddenly cold, drains the water and rinses herself off quickly with the shower.

Illya and Napoleon jerk like puppets on strings when she exits the bathroom, one towel tucked around her under her arms, another wrapping up her hair. Napoleon is trying to seem alert; Illya is trying to conceal his apprehension. They’re in chairs as far from each other as possible while still in the same room, each angled to face the bathroom door and one of the exits.

“Tapes,” she blurts. “What happened to the _tapes_.”

Napoleon relaxes. “Peril took care of them,” he says.

“THRUSH guards had difficulty with cameras today,” Illya says in a bland monotone. “Videos are all duplicates of yesterday’s. I can’t imagine how it happened.”

Gaby exhales. “Thank you,” she says. “Um. Whoever wants the bathroom next…”

Napoleon is quicker to his feet, leaving Gaby and Illya alone. She curls her toes on the cool tile, aware of every inch of her exposed skin.

“I’m sorry,” she says finally.

Illya’s jaw drops. “I think you have that wrong way around,” he replies slowly. “I should be…”

“No,” she says firmly. “I talked you and Napoleon into something that you hadn’t agreed to ahead of time and that I knew you wouldn’t be comfortable with because I was angry. I know I wasn’t in my right mind, but I still took advantage of your concern for me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Illya informs her, slouching in his chair, arms crossed. “We should not talk about this without Solo, anyway.”

“I just,” she tries. “I want you to know. It wasn’t only the drug. I did - do - want-”

“We should not talk about this without Solo,” Illya repeats, looking away, jaw set resolutely.

Gaby suppresses a sigh and goes to the bedroom to change into her pyjamas. She doesn’t want to explain her feelings for Illya when Napoleon’s in the room. It’s partly that it’s unfair, but also that the prospect seems like _lying_ , somehow.

She’s almost done combing out the tangles in her hair when there’s a quiet tap at the door. “Come in,” she says.

“It’s me,” Napoleon says, poking his head through and waiting for her wave to come all the way in. He closes the door behind him. “Illya’s in the shower. I thought. Well. Let’s say that I’ve had a few awkward mornings-after in my time, and if you want some tips…” He shrugs.

“Napoleon,” she says, setting the brush aside and turning to face him in her chair. “I don’t know what you’re expecting, here, but I’m not upset. Not the way you think. I don’t regret it, exactly. I mean, I do, but. It’s the _context_.” She doesn’t know how to explain it.

“Gaby,” Napoleon says, sitting on the corner of the bed nearest her, lacing his fingers together and looking serious. “I know you’ve been wanting to conquer the Siberian Alps for a while now…”

She can’t help it, she grins, her huffed exhalation an echo of a giggle. There’s no such thing as the Siberian Alps. “If you mean that I’ve been attracted to Illya, then yes.”

“Not simply attracted,” he says. “If it were only that, you’d have tumbled him long ago and both of you would have gotten weird enough about it that we wouldn’t be working together on missions anymore - for which I am immensely grateful, by the way. I can’t imagine any two of us partnered in the field without it ending in tears and bloodshed and everyone involved getting summarily sacked.” He gives her a rueful smile. “You two are… complicatedly stupid for each other, and I’ll admit, it’s entertaining to watch. Sooner or later you’re going to have some kind of torrid Romeo and Juliet affair that brings down the Iron Curtain and half of Europe with it, or you’ll elope into the sunset with new identities, on the run from every intelligence agency with any sense of self-preservation. I’m not eager for either outcome, for what it’s worth. This UNCLE experiment has turned out to be… satisfying, against all odds.” He purses his lips, ducking his head.

“...but?” Gaby prompts. She suspects that he’s just revealed more than he’d anticipated.

“But now there’s an extra complication,” he says, gesturing to himself. “And while I don’t regret what happened, precisely, it’s as you said: context.”

Gaby takes a moment. “...would you have slept with me, if I’d asked sober?”

Napoleon’s smile says he’s about to try to con her. “I can’t say I wouldn’t be tempted,” he says, smooth and charming, like they’re acquaintances at a bar.

Now it’s her turn to gape. He’s trying to lie to her with the _truth_. She decides to play dirty. “Are you attracted to Illya?”

Napoleon’s grin fades partway. It’s not his best look; she rather likes it. “ _Gaby._ ”

“ _Napoleon_.”

“It’s completely different,” he says. “For one thing, he’s a man, and that’s. Not something to take lightly.”

“I’m not taking it lightly,” she tells him, shaking her head a little.

“Not to mention, he probably doesn’t-”

An errant fragment of memory rises to the fore. “He said _next time,_ ” she says.

“He meant _with you._ ” But Napoleon’s frowning now, and she can tell he’s replaying their conversation in his mind.

Meanwhile, Gaby’s turning things over herself, re-examining her premises, cataloguing her resources. “If it hadn’t been for Illya, you and I would have probably slept together after that mission in Madrid,” she muses aloud to the wallpaper over his left shoulder.

“...probably,” he concedes. “We definitely would have died at least twice the next day.”

“Not the point. We probably wouldn’t have talked about it afterwards and things would have gotten tense until they snapped, at which point either I would have requested a transfer or we would have slept together again and the cycle would have started over.”

“...possibly,” Napoleon says. “What’s your point?”

“The point is,” Gaby says, “that Illya’s been eavesdropping and should come all the way in for the rest of this, because it concerns him, too.”

Illya doesn’t have the good grace to look contrite when he complies, coming in and leaning on the wall nonchalantly. That’s fair; their jobs are to get information they aren’t supposed to have. But they all know each other - habits, skillsets, weaknesses - well enough at this point that they each trump each other, like a game of rock-paper-scissors. It’s hard to get away with anything when she’s working with them, and she wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s reassuring.

Checks and balances.

“Were you out there when Napoleon said the part about how no two of us could partner up without it ending in tears and bloodshed?” she asks.

“I meant in the field,” Napoleon protests.

“No,” Illya says, without taking his eyes off Gaby. “But that is sound conclusion.”

Gaby takes a deep breath. “What did you mean when you said _next time?_ ”

Illya doesn’t hesitate before answering. He’s always the one least likely to back down from a course of action, once he’s made up his mind. Gaby's cursed his stubbornness more times than she can count; it's a nice change of pace to be glad for it. “I meant… we could try again. Maybe with proper bed. Less… chemical intervention. Only if you were willing, of course. I would understand if you said no, after what happened.” Then he pauses, looks at Napoleon. “If _either_ of you said no.”

Gaby throws her arms up in the air. “Told you so!” she crows, ignoring the twinge in her shoulder.

“There’s no need to be smug.” Napoleon’s voice is sulky, but there’s a gleam in his eye that wasn’t there before.

“You never answered my question,” she counters. “Are you attracted to Illya?”

Napoleon’s gaze slides over to Illya, gives him a slow and totally unnecessary evaluation that begins at his feet and roves up his body. “I can’t say I wouldn’t be tempted,” he says.

“Excellent, then we’re all on the same page,” Gaby says. “Except. My earlier apology still stands. I pushed you both when I shouldn’t have.”

“Poppycock,” Napoleon says. “We were perfectly capable of saying no. You, on the other hand-”

“Had already stated my intentions,” she says. “And I don’t regret making the choice I did in the heat of the moment, not for my own sake. But if you think _anything_ like that is going to happen again before you both buy me at least one staggeringly expensive dinner and give me some time to recover, you have another think coming.”

“Are you… are you hurt?” Illya asks, forehead creased. She can tell he’s well on his way to another guilt complex.

“As I’ve said, conditions were not ideal,” she tells him tartly, feeling warmth rise in her cheeks. She’s not about to list the many little aches and pains still lingering after the bath, including the ones she hadn’t discovered until she was drying off. “Also, one of you needs to shave.”

Napoleon lifts his eyebrows. “Shave, dinner, rest… is there anything else you’d like? I could find a nice tennis bracelet around here somewhere, I’m sure.”

“On someone’s wrist, knowing you,” Illya guesses.

“No stealing,” Gaby interjects, “Waverly’s going to be here in the morning and I promised he wouldn’t have to bail us out of jail for two missions in a row.” She won’t turn down jewelry, necessarily, but there’s always a risk that she might lose valuables, in their line of work.

“Chocolates, then? Flowers?” Napoleon offers.

“No flowers,” she tells him adamantly. “And for the love of God, never roses. Not _ever_.”

“You will have to get creative,” Illya says, smirking.

Privately, Gaby doesn’t think that will be a problem. For any of them.

 

 

 

\- - - end - - -

**Author's Note:**

> ... I love coming up with ridiculous THRUSH plots, really I do.


End file.
